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Posts Tagged ‘wine’

Recently I’ve begun a rather innocent flirtation with a guy I met online. Yes, you can roll your eyes at me. You know what? I’ve been at this online thing a lot longer than many of you, so I’m used to the scorn that one gets from admitting that they’ve been flirtatious with people they’ve never met in person. All I can say is, the high-horse parking lot is that way.

I digress.

All this flirting and divulging of info to one another (random stuff like dating history, personality traits, career paths, etc) made me realize that I have certain things about me that are really kind of important components of who I am as a person and how I live my life. They’re things not likely to change and many of them will be deal-breakers no matter how much I like someone. We all have these things, right?

So fellas (and ladies too), if you think you’re ready for this jelly, here’s some stuff that might make you think twice:

1. I have more gay friends than you can imagine, and I enjoy the gay community immensely. I cried over Milk, I campaigned heavily in opposition of Prop. 8, and I have offered to be a surrogate to several of my gay male friends. I am deeply committed to championing gay rights and this is one of those dealbreaker traits I have. I cannot be with someone who is intolerant of homosexuality. There still is no excuse for banning gay marriage. So if you voted for Prop. 8 or anything like it in your own state, I’m sorry but you are the weakest link. Buh-bye.
2. I still sleep with my original baby blanket. You will have to pry it from my cold dead hands.  I will give you the stink-eye if I catch you trying to toss my beloved blankie in the trash. No, your dick is not an acceptable substitute.
3. My family comes with me. They are some of the warmest, most accepting, most open and honest people you will ever meet. My parents would give you the shirts off their backs, as would my grandparents. My extended family is supportive and would drop everything to be there in a time of crisis. I will never abandon them for a relationship.
4. I love Star Trek. I accept it if you don’t, but keep your Spock-bashing to yourself. You don’t mock me with Captain Kirk quips and I won’t mock your love of Britney Spears songs.
5. Reproductive rights. I may not be running out to get an abortion anytime soon, but I will not tell another woman what she can or cannot do with her uterus. You do NOT know the other woman’s story, nor do you have to live her life. Yes, I am concerned about abortions being used as birth control, but you know what? I’d rather take that chance, since we aren’t doing anything to fix our broken sex ed system in this country.
6. The environment is more important to me than you realize. Or maybe you do realize. If you’d like a blowjob on a more frequent basis than “whenever I damn well feel like it”, I suggest you take up recycling…STAT.
7. I don’t do spa treatments. No manicures, no pedicures, no facial peels…none of that frivolous shit. What biology gave me is what you’re going to get. Don’t like it? Nobody asked you to put your mouth on my toes. Least of all me.
8. I talk. A lot. No, really. A lot. Most of the time I can’t even control it. It’s not like I have anything important to say. Honestly, I think I just don’t know when enough is enough. This is would be a noble trait if it were attached to philanthropy, house cleaning, or hot sex. But unluckily for you, I only exhibit this when speaking.
9. My PMS is legendary. You would be wise to invest in chain mail and earplugs. Oh, and a neck brace for the whiplash you’re going to get from all the rapid, severe mood swings. Hey, you’re the one who wanted to tap this ass.
10. CATS
11. I snore. It’s not one of those deep honking 70-year-old-Paisano-from-the-Bronx snores; more like a raspy heavy breathing (comes from the back of my throat, not my sinuses). I didn’t used to snore. Perhaps one day it will actually go away again. Or maybe it will get worse. Do you feel lucky, punk?
12. Mention Napa Valley to me when I mention wine, and your nuts will meet an untimely demise courtesy of my fist.
13. Yes, I know Twin Peaks was canceled 18 years ago. Did you know that your hairstyle went out in 1986? Yeah? Good. We’re both informed now.
14. I have a lot of guy friends. A LOT. I mean, honestly. It’s a veritable sausagefest in my phone’s contact list. This doesn’t mean I’m banging any of them or even want to for that matter. It means I associate better with men than women. It also means that the few women I have in my life are uber important to me. Make eyes at them at any time and your death will be neither swift nor merciful.
15. I’m a lazy shaver. Even in the summer time. Oh, I’ll keep the pits toned down to a dull roar, but my legs are another story. And as far as my netherbeard goes, well…that’s just a hit-or-miss proposition depending on how much I feel like cleaning up trimmed pubes from the rim of the toilet seat. Hey, I didn’t ask you to put your face down there, so don’t trip like I’m putting you out.
16. I sing. A lot. I’m not awful, but I’m no Patsy Cline. I do enjoy belting out a good harmony when I can, too. I’m sorry you’re unable to do so as well. Don’t take your untalented woes out on me.
17. I do intend to get a breast reduction one day, probably in the next couple of years. So don’t get too attached to the girls. At least, not their size. You can still attach otherwise.
18. Most days I’m positive that I’m ridiculously unfunny. Then someone reacts to something I say with a mirthful gusto that is typically reserved for Margaret Cho and George Lopez, and I become temporarily convinced that I am the Funniest Person U Know. You’ll want to avoid situations like this. It’s really more embarrassing than entertaining. Unless you find my embarrassment entertaining…then by all means, destroy my ego for your own viewing pleasure.
19. I ain’t no lady. But I’m not a linebacker either. Treat me accordingly..
20. John Denver was a damn good musician and nothing you could ever say will make me change my mind. Get used to my musical tastes, as they are as broad as they are deep. I place JD, Tori Amos, Tool, Depeche Mode, and Fleetwood Mac all in the same high regard. If that doesn’t make your brain hurt, you’re totally in. And by in I mean MY VAGINA. DING DING DING!

The Coastal Cleanup weekend was a riot. Well, as riotous as camping and picking up other peoples’ garbage can really get.

I tell you, there is nothing more humbling than digging someone’s discarded baby diapers out of a muddy creek bottom. Or better yet, finding someone’s outdoor “toilet” as you’re tromping through seagrass looking for recyclables. And thank you, California, for deciding that beaches, bushes, and forests are the best place possible for storing your dirty and disintegrating shoes, socks, and underwear (ladies: an extra thank-you for leaving your “mark” on the latter).

I had to fight hard to remember that not everyone on this planet is a disgusting piece of shit. I’m better now, but at the time, being covered in my own dripping sweat and several unidentified substances that had leaked out of various bottles/cans/boots/plastic bags, it was difficult to maintain perspective. One positive…I got to watch a group of young’uns from the CA Conservation Corps dig out a car at Blues Beach. Just in time for some kind redneck gentleman with no shoes to hook his tow chain to it and haul it out and around the beach like some big rusted trophy. Followed by a grunt session not unlike Tim Allen’s Home Improvement “I am man, hear me roar” noises.

The absolute highlight of the entire weekend was the rapid depletion of wearable pants in my already-limited wardrobe. I started the weekend out wearing one of my favorite pairs of board shorts because it was hot as all get-out when we left here on Friday. Getting ready to leave my parents’ house, I was tasked with keeping Glen from escaping while mom closed the front door. That wily little bastard slipped out anyway and I made a desperate, deep lunge to grab him. At which point I heard a distinct RRRRRIIIIIP! and found myself with a sudden and unexpected ventilation system in my trousers. (Caught the damn cat, though) The hole wasn’t so big that it was in need of immediate changing, so I decided to just stick with it and toss them when we got to the campground. I had two pairs of jeans packed, so it was all good.

The next morning I threw on the older of the two pairs of jeans and headed off to clean those beaches. I squatted down to pick cigarette butts out of a pile of rocks at the base of a cliff, and heard that distinct and now familiar RRRRIIIIIIP! Ah, there’s that ventilation again. It wasn’t so bad that I couldn’t stick it out for the rest of the morning, but now I was definitely down to just one pair of jeans.

That night, mom and I decided to throw my now unusable jeans and a pair of her old ripped underwear in the campfire. I changed into my last unmarred pair of jeans, chucked my old ones on the fire, and joked about how well they burned and it’s good fortune that I never stood too close to an open flame in them. I poured myself a glass of tempranillo, sat down in one of the canvas camp chairs, and propped my glass in the cupholder while I attempted to light a cigar for mom and I to share.

That’s when I felt something wet and cold hit my leg, run down through my crotch, and soak straight into my jeans.

Did I mention that I’d just filled my glass? It was a pretty big glass too. And it was pretty full. And yeah, I”m aware that the cupholders in those chairs aren’t made for wine glasses, but I thought I had it propped up pretty good. SHUT UP, lemme finish my story.

I stood up to halt the absorption process (the canvas chairs are waterproof, so all that wine just pooled on the seat and wicked its way into my denim. Mom got out her flashlight to survey the damage.

My ass was thirsty.No, it's OK. I'll just go pantless.

No, it's OK. I'll just go pantless.

Yeah. Denim is really really absorbent. Really.

It’s a good thing that it was 9pm and we weren’t going anywhere for the rest of the night, because I don’t know that I can rock the flannel-pajama-bottoms-in-public look as well as most folks. That was all I had left for bottoms. So a desperate attempt was made to dry my jeans in front of the campfire. We even stoked it up and threw a bunch of extra logs on it right before we crawled into the tent, hoping that maybe…just maybe…the Dry Jeans Fairy would pay me a visit and cure all my pants woes.

Because yeah, it makes sense that jeans would end up bone dry after sitting out all night on the Northern California coast. I’m betting it comes as no surprise to you that my jeans weren’t dry the next morning. On a positive note, the sun was shining when we got up, so into the one patch of sunlight in our campsite the jeans went. Within an hour, they were dry enough to wear, and the wine stain barely showed. I would have my dignity yet!

Apparently karma decided that I’d had enough, because I stayed dry, clean, and all in one piece for the remainder of the trip. As soon as I got home, I pulled out every pair of pants I own and inspected them inside and out. I think I’m safe. And I won’t be packing less than six pairs of any pants type next time I travel. By god, I’ll never be without proper pants again!

Did I mention that those wine glasses were large?